


Covet

by verity



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alchemy, Captivity, F/M, Reconnaissance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-06-12
Updated: 2007-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curiouser and curiouser. Snape and Hermione after Book Six.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (prologue) covet

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings: This fic features kidnapping and temporary imprisonment, albeit in another's house, as well as a relationship formed in these rather dubious circumstances. If this is not your kink, you will probably want to pass.
> 
> And, _for my very dear friend Rivi, from one Susan to another._

After the death of Dumbledore, he'd become a somewhat notorious pet of his master. Naturally, when they captured the girl, they'd brought her to him first, in his little house at Spinner's End. They brought her in by Floo, and threw her callously on his living room floor, bound inescapably by invisible charms.

Now she was kneeling at his feet. "I don't believe you would betray him like that, I don't, I can't," the girl in front of him said, sobbing almost hysterically. He could see her thin shoulders shaking beneath her black robe.

"I trust, Miss Granger, that your delusions are entirely grounded in an inability to accept that you have finally found a problem you cannot solve," he replied evenly, looking down at her disheveled hair.

"You wouldn't betray him."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" It had been a long time since he'd played this particular game. He looked away from her face and watched her white fingers twine together nervously. "I've done as I was bid. No more and no less."

Her face fell, and she looked away, towards the hearth.

Just then he felt the familiar burning in his arm. She did not look back before he Disapparated.

* * *

"Tell me what you want from me," she entreated, when he returned later that evening, sweaty and spattered with blood not his own.

With a mutter and a quick gesture, most of the muck came out; he tossed his outer robes into the hamper he'd put conveniently near the door. Then he took off the mask, wiping it with a damp cloth before he laid it down on the arm of his favorite chair. "I want nothing from you," he explained, these things attended to. "You were a gift. I suppose I shall do with you as I please, when I feel so inclined."

"And what is it that you please?"

"I find your questions irritating," he snarled. "Also, as you may have noticed, I don't like you or the company you choose to keep," he added for good measure.

"Please, just let me go, Professor, let me go, you don't have to do this." Now her voice was shaking, he observed, although not impassively.

"My tenure as your teacher has ended, if you'd be kind enough to remember." He released the charm which restrained her hands before he summoned the house-elf (a present from Narcissa), and instructed it to bring the girl food. "It's rather late. I shall be rather irritated if I find that you have tried to give me any trouble when I wake. Since I know that you will try, you will not succeed in breaking the wards on either the parlor or my house as a whole."

"All right," she said, looking down.

With that, he went off to bed, too tired to do more than hope that he didn't wake to find the house on fire or some such nonsense. But surely the girl was more sensible than that.

For the first time in weeks, he drifted off to sleep easily as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

In the morning, he found the girl still asleep, curled up by the embers of the fire. The house-elf prepared some strong tea and toast. He noticed that there were a few books piled by her head, but the wards seemed to be still in order, so he took his meal in the kitchen peaceably enough.

Afterwards, he stood over her for a moment. Her face looked innocent and much younger in sleep, and was slightly more agreeable when deprived of excess enthusiasm. There were shadows under her eyes, though, that belied the illusion of the young girl he remembered. Still a child though, he thought to himself. But then again, to be a Gryffindor was to be in a perpetual sort of childhood, where there was no room for shades between white and black.

She stirred, then, and opened her eyes, slowly. He was silent for a moment.

"I did try," she said, so quietly he was almost unable to hear her.

"I would have been seriously disappointed in you if you had not," he replied.

"I couldn't reach the books on the upper shelves."

"I know."

He met her eyes for one long moment, then glanced away.

* * *

He had the house-elf bring her toast in the morning and whatever he was eating at night. It wasn't as if he entertained many visitors, after all. He spent most of the time in his room or out... on business, of one sort or another.

On the fourth day, she made a request. "I'd, ah, like to take a bath."

He eyed her closely. "You do seem to be wanting for one, at that."

So he filled the tub in the bath with hot water, and carried her in. He set her down on the edge of the tub, and moved to pull her robes over her head. The girl blushed furiously, clutching them close to her. "I am perfectly capable of bathing myself."

"Yes, Miss Granger, I am quite aware. Nevertheless, you are going to indulge me."

At last, she was quiet. Surprising, really, he thought to himself, how quiet she'd been. Or perhaps she was merely waiting until the appropriate moment to start railing at him like a shrill harpy once more. He disrobed her before placing her in the water. She bit her lip, and turned away from him, but still said nothing as he washed her, careful not to pay any special attention to her person. Finally, he wrapped her in a towel and set her on the bathroom floor once more. "I'll find you some robes."

"Why don't you just kill me? Or turn me over to them? Or whatever horrible thing you're intending to do to me?" Her voice started out soft, but finished high and keening. She buried her face in her hands, and the towel fell away from her. He turned away and found her some robes that, to his best recollection, had belonged to his mother.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I don't know."

* * *

He began to get used to stepping over her in the mornings. At least she put the books back where she'd found them. Occasionally, he allowed her a bath.

He began to get used to watching her sleep while she lay unknowing. Her face seemed calmer in her sleep. Her breasts rose and fell gently with her breathing. Sometimes, she clutched a pillow to herself in her sleep, and he wondered whom she was dreaming of. She never asked about her friends, or the war, or really, anything. Perhaps she talked to the house-elf.

His mother's robes were loose on her; for the first time, he realized that she was in fact very small, which was one of the many things about her that were usually masked by the fact that she was talking, all the time, very loudly. She was smart, after all, he reminded himself, just so... so... self-righteous. Or had been, at least, as, after all, she rarely spoke to him.

One day, she woke to find him watching her, as she had that first morning. He watched her uncurl and stretch like a kitten. (He'd had a kitten himself, once... long ago.) The tower of books by her head was smaller.

"Have you decided what you are going to do with me?" she asked.

"No."

* * *

He was startled from sleep in the dead of night. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he tried to reorient himself. "Ah," he said, comprehending slowly. "You figured out the ward on the parlor, then. It took you long enough."

She was on the floor. He remembered her legs were still bound. "May I sleep here?" she asked. "The floor is very uncomfortable."

It took him a few moments to decide. "I suppose that you may. If only as an appropriate reward for your cleverness."

She managed to pull herself up into the bed, and promptly curled up against the farthest wall, stealing the fattest and the most comfortable of the pillows. He said nothing. Instead, he watched as her breathing grew even and steady. The moon shone lightly on her pale face, throwing its hollows into soft shadows. Her hair, tangled, straggled over her back; she wore his mother's favorite robes, which were a dark blue. He had just decided that he would have to do something about her hair when he fell asleep.

* * *

The next night, he carried her to bed when he returned home at the end of the day. Then, patiently, he began to work through the knots in her heavy mass of curls.

"This is very strange," she said at last.

"I suppose," he said, surprised to find his voice even and neutral.

"Did you buy these robes for me?"

"No," he answered, gathering a section of her hair into his hand as he aimed for a particularly rough patch. "They were in the family. I saw no reason why they might not get some use."

"You could have found a pet some other way."

"You're not a pet."

"Oh?" She looked over her shoulder at him, and for a moment she came alive to him as the girl she had formerly been. "For someone who claims otherwise, you've done a pretty nice job training me. I even do special tricks. Like taking down wards."

He continued brushing her hair.

"I gather that I shouldn't even ask," she said, finally, sounding defeated, "what the purpose of all of this is."

"An astute line of reasoning," he said.

"You never use my name now."

"I don't know what to call you."

"Okay." She was silent as he shaped her hair into a long braid. Then she lay down, facing the wall again. "Goodnight, then."

He waited until he was sure she was asleep before he answered, "Goodnight."

* * *

One morning he awoke to find her curled around him. Her hair was still damp from the night before and had come loose in her sleep; it smelled of rosemary and nettles. Of course, she had stolen all the covers.

He slipped out of the bed and dressed before Disapparating to the Malfoy estate.

When he returned that evening, he found her still in bed, much as he had left her.

"Are you unwell?" he asked. She shook her head. "It's unlike you to have given up so easily."

"I don't know what's like me at all any more."

He sat down next to her and put his hand to her forehead. Her eyes were very bright. "Perhaps you need some exercise," he said, and unbound her ankles.

He helped her take a few turns around the parlor before bed. It was hard for her, having gone for weeks without the use of her legs.

That night, as he was brushing her hair, she asked, "Why did you do this to me?"

"I'm sorry."

He woke in the middle of the night to find her embracing him again, but this time he simply went back to sleep.

* * *

"I'll be gone for at least a week," he said. "The house-elf-" (it didn't have a name) "-will take care of you."

She was perched on the couch, perusing a book, but she looked up as he said this. "What if you don't come back?"

"You'll have to trust that I do." With that, he Disapparated.

The summit was boring, as usual. His master had lost his mind a long time past, and he himself had little tolerance for the sniveling cronyism of the other disciples. There were no intellectual peers here, now that Lucius was dead. He spent most of his time in his allotted laboratory preparing the concoctions for collective needs, as well as attending to his master (now peculiarly indulgent, or perhaps not so peculiarly, considering what had happened). At meals, they discussed tactics and strategy with glee, if not much wit or foresight. No one asked after her; he supposed they thought her long dead, or as good as.

He watched his godson from afar. They hadn't really talked since it had happened. At least the boy was alive, he reflected bitterly. For good or for ill.

When he came home, she was asleep, so he washed up and put on his nightshirt before climbing into bed. She started, and sat up quickly, gasping. "Oh," she said. "It's you."

"Just me," he said. Then she reached out and clung to him. He held her awkwardly. Her hair was loose again and spilled over her shoulders, clean and recently brushed.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come back."

"I should think you'd have hoped for that."

He held her for a long while, until she pulled him down and they fell asleep, embracing.

* * *

He became accustomed to waking up tangled in her embrace. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. She seemed better nourished now, a little more light-hearted; she'd made her way through most of his library by this point in time.

One night he came in to find her already resting in her dark blue robes, and he lay down beside her. She turned to him, and gently put her mouth against his. He froze. She continued placing soft kisses on his lips, his cheek, his neck.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, at last.

"I asked you first," she replied, and kissed him hard. He closed his eyes and wondered if this was real.

* * *

In the morning, she was gone. She had left a note; it said simply, "I'm sorry."

He held it for a long while before it shriveled and turned to ash in his grasp.


	2. however far away

Now that she was back she didn't know what to think about things any more.

"I can't talk about it," she told Headmistress McGonagall that first morning, when she'd stumbled into the Great Hall as dawn was breaking. Harry and Ron were gone now, off in search of Horcruxes who knew where. The girl she had been would have left that same day in search of them. Now she didn't know what to do. So she went to classes and slept alone in the room that she had once shared with Lavender and Parvati, now sent off to Beauxbatons for safety like so many other students. Sometimes she noticed the younger students staring at her, returned home inexplicably after a long absence that had consumed much of the first term, but she resolved to ignore them and eventually the attention lessened.

Sometimes Ginny came up and they talked a little about courses and the weather. The long silences in their conversations spoke for them. Once, Ginny had come to her crying in the night, saying, "_Harry, Harry_ -" and she had held her tight without speaking, the tears welling up in her throat. She thought of _him_ and then tried not to.

What was there to do? She helped Madame Pomfrey keep the stores in the infirmary up, brewing potions in her free time. The new Potions instructor, Professor Malarkey, wasn't qualified to teach Advanced Potions and had little enough time anyway, given that he was trying to cover some of Defense Against the Dark Arts course work as well. That position had become a bit of a joke. She practiced by herself, at night; after all, she barely slept anymore. Going to sleep meant admitting defeat, stopping moving, thinking, writing, stirring, cursing, anything that distracted her from the memory of -

Well, she wouldn't think about that just now, would she?

She wore her hair up always, brushing it hastily, tucking it under a scarf. She tried to pretend that it was no longer part of her body, it was a secret that she was locking away, keeping safe from something, or for something, she didn't know which.

Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night, looking for something that wasn't there.

* * *

Then the boys found out she'd come back, and they returned home at Christmastide, if only briefly.

"'Mione!" Ron shouted, and ran to her, clasping his arms around her. She paled and froze, and he stepped back, looking confused. Then Harry, bless him, came to her and took her hand, saying, "Oh, Hermione!" And somehow that was easier. She took Ron's hand, too, and squeezed it firmly, hoping that somehow he'd understand eventually.

He took it well, for Ron. The long months they'd spent apart had changed him, made him quieter and sharper, somehow. She spent an afternoon with him, lying next to the fire in the Gryffindor, talking of the war outside the castle.

"Tonks lost a leg, but she's doing well for all that," Ron told her. "Remus took it harder than her, to tell the truth. She's managed to transfigure her stump into some right incredible things, too."

"Please give them my best," she said, and meant it. "Is there anything I can do for you, now?"

"Well," he started, and she knew what was coming, "There's something missing, with it just being me and Harry, now. It's you, Hermione. We miss you. I - miss you. I don't know what went wrong when you were gone, but I promise, it doesn't matter a bit to me, or Harry, either."

"I miss you, too." She looked away, toward the fire. "But I can't. Not now. I would have come at once-"

"I know." Ron reached out to push an tendril of hair away from her face. She suppressed a shudder, and instead allowed herself, finally, to cry.

She barely saw Harry - or Ginny, for that matter, the whole holiday, but that, she thought, was as it should be. One morning she met him in the Astronomy Tower, and sat there quietly with him, watching the sun rise.

"What was it like?" Harry asked, at last. The back lighting of the sun washed out most of his face as he turned towards her.

"You can't imagine."

"Did they hurt you?"

"I don't know," she said truthfully, looking at her folded hands in her lap.

* * *

With the start of the new term, Harry and Ron left, and she returned to her studies. On the third day of classes, McGonagall summoned her to her office.

"_Glenfiddich_," she said, and the entrance opened to her. It was the first time she had been in it since she had returned, and the first time she had given much attention to its decor since Dumbledore died. Neither Fawkes nor the many magical objects that had once lined the walls were in evidence; instead, a number of comfy chairs and a quite considerable extension of the already bountiful library were in evidence. The requisite scotch was, however, not in evidence.

"I must beg you for assistance, Miss Granger." She near jumped, startled, before realizing that the voice which had emanated from the most plush and squishy-looking of the chairs near the fire was, in fact, McGonagall.

"Yes, Headmistress?" she said, clasping her hands behind her back nervously.

"It is not on school business that I have called you here, my dear," her former professor said, looking at her with some sad tenderness. "I speak with you at the behest of the Order."

"You spent some time amongst... _them_." It was not a question, but it was close enough to the one she dreaded.

She wondered if she was going to faint. "Yes, I did."

"We have no one now among them, since Severus..." McGonagall was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. "Well, things are as they are. I do not know anything about the circumstances... but I hoped, have prayed, that you know of someone - things are, you see, growing dire..."

She listened to her heart beat for some time. It thudded in her ears. Before answering, she counted to twenty-seven and was rewarded by the gradual feeling of calm reasserting itself in her body. When she answered, her voice was steady. "I will do it myself."

"Oh, Hermione, that makes no sense, how on earth are you going to-"

She crossed to McGonagall's armchair and stood before her, looking her evenly in the eye. "I will do it myself. Please trust me."

In the end, she hoped, this would be enough.


	3. first you dream

So he went about his business as usual. In the outer world she simply hadn't existed, after all. He brewed potions for the inner circle at the Malfoy estate by day, came home and tossed and turned in bed by night.

His master summoned him to his side every few days. _Tell me, Severus,_ he asked, the next time, _how this work of yours comes, now._

"Unfortunately, I cannot report much progress, Master," he answered. "I have been told that it took Flamel himself many years before he achieved it... In addition, I surely cannot start before spring, the stars will not abide it."

_We do not have so much time now, do we?_

"No," he acknowledged. "We do not."

_Do you require... assistance?_

He thought on this for a minute. "Perhaps, my godson...?"

_It is as done_.

So he knelt before his master in deference, and moved to leave. A grasping hand on his shoulder stilled him.

_Remember, we do not have much time... I can only be patient for so long._

"I shall keep this in mind," he promised before making his exit.

* * *

So his godson came downstairs to his laboratory in the dungeons of the Malfoy Estate. Which meant that he had to find something for him to do.

"Clean out the far room," he said to Draco, gesturing to the wooden door.

"But this is the laboratory..." the boy said, sounding confused.

"Just do as I say."

He took the texts from his bookshelf and cleaned them, gently blowing the dust out of their pages. Surely this was hopeless, he thought to himself. His master had no idea of what he was asking.

When the far room was clean, he gave his godson a small fortune in Galleons and sent him to the city. "Bring me back the best equipment," he instructed. "I'll need-"

"I know what you will need."

The boy was quick, he'd give him that.

* * *

"We won't be able to begin until late March," he explained, turning to his regular tasks, when everything had been readied. "So I'll have no need of you until then, if I'm imposing on your time."

"Not so much," his godson answered, and looked off toward the imposing pile of books. "I suppose I could read up." He noted that the boy looked thinner, paler these days.

"So much you could," he granted, "if you desired."

"I do." A deep breath. "I think that the Circle wants me dead."

He looked up at this. "Do they, now."

"It is not as if..." his godson stared at his feet. "Well, I failed. You succeeded. Just because he's dead doesn't mean that our master, hell, everyone, has not forgotten. I am afraid that soon I will no longer be needed. Even in my own home."

Privately, he seriously doubted that Narcissa's support of her sister, and by extension, their master's whims,

would go so far. "Well, I shall keep you gainfully employed here so long as it is in my power to do so."

"Thank you."

He listened to the patter of the boy's footsteps up the stairs until they faded into nothingness.

* * *

At home things were quiet. The house-elf was anxious again, having too little to do. He set the creature to cleaning the books; things had been left to grow dust too long, and after all, the whole library had been disturbed by the girl's visit. How strange of himself to take an interest in housekeeping now that it no longer mattered.

He was disturbed to find himself thinking that it had ever mattered at any point in time.

Christmas holidays had come and gone without much incident; Narcissa had sent a parcel in the mail, consisting of a rather disgusting fruit cake and an entreaty to share the Yule table with them. As usual, he gave it a pass. It seemed pointless to celebrate when there was nothing the next year held but his own sure demise, one way or another.

It was an impossible task, of course.

That was why it had been assigned.

* * *

_How is your progress?_ his master asked from the depths of the commodious armchair he was most fond of. Nagini curled on his lap like a cat, scales flashing beneath those curved white hands.

"As I told you, I cannot begin before spring. Mid-march at the earliest. However, I have made suitable preparations, and I am educating young Draco so that he may assist me."

Nagini hissed, and his master's face contorted into what he well knew was an expression of displeasure. _I desire results posthaste. That child has found too many of my pieces, Severus. He is too clever. At least he has not the girl with him, now..._

"There is that."

Thankfully, this answer was sufficient. _My health is quite good, for all that... nevertheless, without the stone, there is no guarantee. And I do desire... to be as I was._

"Certainly, Master."

_I knew... that you would understand._

* * *

He set the boy to reading the usual treatises. Flamel, of course, but Paracelsus, Hermes Trismegistus, and Eirenaeus Philalethes as well. They were long and confusing and dull. So of course, they would consume his time, and keep him from worrying.

In the mean time, he met with Narcissa. She served them tea on a delicate silver service of obvious pedigree.

"You say that he is safe so long as he is with you, and this work is not complete," she said at last, when he was done speaking.

"I can buy him a year at most, probably less."

Her already fair skin whitened. "It's not fair. There's no crime he's committed."

"You know that those who do not please our master have an uncanny way of shuffling off the playing board. Rosier, for instance. Nevertheless, I swore a vow to protect him, and it's one I'll uphold."

She looked away, toward the large family portrait of her, Lucius, and their boy in happier times.


	4. trust

Harry came to see her in the week before she left them again.

"Harry-" she sputtered, seeing who lay behind the door to her room.

"I want to give you this," he said, presenting an awkwardly formed bundle to her. She recognized the silvery sheen of it immediately.

She took it from him and sat down heavily on her bed. "This is too much."

"I could not send you out into this with anything less. There's one more thing, inside it."

So she shook the small parcel free of the cloak's thin folds. It proved to be a small mirrored compact upon unwrapping. "Makeup?" she inquired skeptically.

A ghost of smile appeared on Harry's lips as he leaned against the bedpost. "It's actually a mirror much like the one Sirius once gave to me. It will allow you to contact us when you need us."

This earned a smile of relief from her, in turn. "That's good. Because I'm not taking my wand."

The silence before he spoke was deafening. "_What?!_"

"I can't explain." She could hardly justify the choice to herself, either, on the surface. But in her heart she knew that it had less to do with common sense and more to do with the fact that she was a supplicant to the mercy of one she did not know well. Unconsciously, she put a hand to the scarf which concealed her hair. "I know a little wandless magic."

"A little," Harry said scornfully.

She looked up at him. "I can't talk about what happened, Harry. Please trust me."

"You can't, or you won't?" he asked more gently.

For a long moment, she was quiet, and bit her lip. Then Harry straightened himself.

"All right, Hermione. I do trust you."

"Thank you," she said in a small voice.

He took her hand for a moment before he went out.

* * *

She told no one in advance, although she considered telling Ginny. But, after all, she thought, Ginny had been down this path - she already knew more than she herself could say.

McGonagall went with her to the gate. "I wish you'd tell me more about where you're going," she scolded, but the reproach was mild and she saw that the Headmistress looked tired.

"You know that I won't," she replied, looking off at the lake, still frozen in the cold.

"Are you protecting someone else?" the Headmistress asked her, her eyes kindly. "Or yourself?"

"Both, I think," she was surprised to hear herself answer.

In that moment, she understood why she was leaving, and would have gone anyway, in time.

* * *

The house had been different in her memory. Seeing it now with leisure, from the outside, it was smaller and more derelict than she recalled. It was not out of place amongst the other buildings of the old mill town, mostly abandoned to element and idle squatters.

She put her hand to the door, felt her way around the wards, which remained unchanged, and let herself in.

The house-elf came up to greet her, astonished, but she quieted her and told her not to disturb him. Of course, he was out, as it happened. This was a little disappointing, but not a terrible upset to her plans.

She put her rucksack with the cloak and the mirror in one of the little-used cabinets in the kitchen behind a small Glamour. It would not be hard to find it, if one was looking, which no one was.

The books looked recently tended to, to her surprise. Some had gone missing, but new ones were in their place - alchemical texts, mostly. As she tallied the little library's change in inventory, she felt a sick feeling in her stomach.

Was this - no - it couldn't be - well, it must –

At this, she curled up in her old place on the floor and decided it was too much to think on.

She did not question why, exactly, she felt she might have to work her way back up to the bed.


	5. rewrite history

The truth was that he had not expected to ever see her again, in the best of circumstances. In the worst - he'd meet her at the other end of his wand.

Her presence filled him with a hot anger that choked and paralyzed him. She had come here uninvited. She had, too, come into his life in this way uninvited, but against her will, so he hadn't blamed her for it. Now she was here again and he did not know what to do.

Her hair, curling out from beneath a scarf, was rich chestnut, the white of her neck alabaster.

(_The curves of your lips rewrite history._)

"Wake up," he said at last. She stirred and looked up at him beneath heavy-lidded eyes. He wanted her and wanted her to disappear at the same time. The force of desire shook him and sat heavy in his chest. How could he want her now, after all of this? "Why have you returned?"

"I..." she looked away, towards the walls of books. "There was nowhere else to go," she said at last.

"I am here of my own free will."

"That's no answer."

"You did not have to treat me so kindly."

He regarded her for a long moment, then turned sharply and left the room.

* * *

The next day was no easier. She lay on the couch, reading, and the sight of her engrossed in her book prevented him from retreating into his own. He could not forget the way she had touched him. Her long legs were lean and supple beneath the short skirt of her school uniform. The very thought disturbed him and robbed him of appetite. He could not speak to her.

The house-elf brought in dinner and they supped in silence.

Finally, she spoke. "I see that you are interested in the Great Work. I could not help but notice the shift in contents on your shelves."

There was little point in denying it. "I must attempt it in the coming spring."

She looked surprised, and then a little scared. "Is this how Vol- your master intends to secure his end, then?"

"Your friends have done much to weaken him." He sighed. "I do not believe it is his ultimate aim, however."

"Isn't the Stone what he's always desired?"

"Oh, that I do not doubt. But this is simply the easiest manner of ensuring my fall from grace. I have risen too high amongst his company."

"Are you not capable of completing the Great Work? I mean... it has been done. You are the most skilled, er..." She looked at her plate.

He took a sip of his pumpkin juice. "It is not a question of my skill, as you should know, Miss Granger, considering all that you've read. The Great Work is an endeavor which requires spiritual purity and partnership. My partner is not suitable, and my motives, to say the least, are impure. My Lord desires me to fail, and fail I will. I doubt I will live out the year."

It seemed very final, to say it so. But so many times he had thought himself in danger of discovery and death. To know his end was certain, at last, was almost calming. He did not really have a great yen to survive this, not now. He had done Dumbledore's bidding, and his master's, for twenty long years. A life beyond this seemed foolish and unfathomable.

But he had something beyond this, someone, he thought suddenly, whose presence was of neither's devising. So he rested his gaze on her, once more. Her brown eyes looked back, wide and knowing and sad.

* * *

That night, he took her roughly by the hand and led her upstairs to his room. His hands shook as he untied the scarf (red and gold; some things never changed) that covered her hair. Slowly, he drew out the pins, teased her curly mass of hair from the long braids into which she'd woven it.

"I cannot bathe you now," he said. "As you have said, you are fully capable of doing so yourself."

She nodded.

He lay on the bed, listened to the water running in the bathroom, and imagined her in the shower. It embarrassed him; he had not thought of anyone like that since Lily, when he was a teenage boy, before she had ended their friendship and gone to the man who had fathered her son. The thought of touching himself, especially now, after many years in service of his master (who had few scruples and less inclination toward mercy), simply made him feel worse.

Now he looked back on the time of her captivity with longing. He had not been able to turn her out, for fear of detection, nor had he desired to betray her and misuse her. So, instead, he had cared for her as best he could, without fear of reprisal or rejection. He missed the days in which he had been able to look upon her body and lie next to her with the innocence of distance and without the shame of desire, days which had ended with the miracle and disaster of her touch.

She came out of the bathroom then, wrapped in towel. Her hair hung heavily over her shoulders. Slowly, deliberately, she walked over to where he lay on the bed.

"I do not believe that you are evil," she said.

"That is hardly a ringing endorsement, Miss Granger," he responded drily.

"I have to tell you why I came back." He rolled on his back to look her in the eye. "Ever since I went back home I have felt as if I did not belong. I could not - explain what happened to me. It did not make sense. I was offered the opportunity of leaving school to work in intelligence. So I came back."

"You came back to spy on me." He felt cold and empty.

"No," she said. "I came back because I believe that you are innocent."

* * *

He woke in the middle of the night when he heard her whimpering, and held her close to him.

She turned and twined her arms around his neck, tucking her head next to his. "I'm not very brave," she said softly. "Harry and Ron always did that part."

"You are very brave to return," he told her. She clung to him tightly.

"I will partner you in your Great Work," she whispered, some time later. "You must not die."

**

* * *

**"The curves of your lips rewrite history" is from Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of right now (1/3/2010), this story has been on hiatus for over two years. I do not currently have any plans to resume work on it, but it's not off my WIP list, either.


End file.
